Crypto sublevels 1 страница

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

He knew he was definitely not authorized personnel. He shot a quick glance up at Strathmore’s office. The curtains were still pulled. Chartrukian had seen Susan Fletcher go into the bathrooms, so he knew she wasn’t a problem. The only other question was Hale. He glanced toward Node 3, wondering if the cryptographer were watching.

“Fuck it,” he grumbled.

Below his feet the outline of a recessed trapdoor was barely visible in the floor. Chartrukian palmed the key he’d just taken from the Sys‑Sec lab.

He knelt down, inserted the key in the floor, and turned. The bolt beneath clicked. Then he unscrewed the large external butterfly latch and freed the door. Checking once again over his shoulder, he squatted down and pulled. The panel was small, only three feet by three feet, but it was heavy. When it finally opened, the Sys‑Sec stumbled back.

A blast of hot air hit him in the face. It carried with it the sharp bite of freon gas. Billows of steam swirled out of the opening, illuminated by the red utility lighting below. The distant hum of the generators became a rumble. Chartrukian stood up and peered into the opening. It looked more like the gateway to hell than a service entrance for a computer. A narrow ladder led to a platform under the floor. Beyond that, there were stairs, but all he could see was swirling red mist.

* * *

Greg Hale stood behind the one‑way glass of Node 3. He watched as Phil Chartrukian eased himself down the ladder toward the sublevels. From where Hale was standing, the Sys‑Sec’s head appeared to have been severed from his body and left out on the Crypto floor. Then, slowly, it sank into the swirling mist.

“Gutsy move,” Hale muttered. He knew where Chartrukian was headed. An emergency manual abort of TRANSLTR was a logical action if he thought the computer had a virus. Unfortunately, it was also a sure way to have Crypto crawling with Sys‑Secs in about ten minutes. Emergency actions raised alert flags at the main switchboard. A Sys‑Sec investigation of Crypto was something Hale could not afford. Hale left Node 3 and headed for the trapdoor. Chartrukian had to be stopped.

CHAPTER 51

Jabba resembled a giant tadpole. Like the cinematic creature for whom he was nicknamed, the man was a hairless spheroid. As resident guardian angel of all NSA computer systems, Jabba marched from department to department, tweaking, soldering, and reaffirming his credo that prevention was the best medicine. No NSA computer had ever been infected under Jabba’s reign; he intended to keep it that way.

Jabba’s home base was a raised workstation overlooking the NSA’s underground, ultra‑secret databank. It was there that a virus would do the most damage and there that he spent the majority of his time. At the moment, however, Jabba was taking a break and enjoying pepperoni calzones in the NSA’s all‑night commissary. He was about to dig into his third when his cellular phone rang.

“Go,” he said, coughing as he swallowed a mouthful.

“Jabba,” a woman’s voice cooed. “It’s Midge.”

“Data Queen!” the huge man gushed. He’d always had a soft spot for Midge Milken. She was sharp, and she was also the only woman Jabba had ever met who flirted with him. “How the hell are you?”

“No complaints.”

Jabba wiped his mouth. “You on site?”

“Yup.”

“Care to join me for a calzone?”

“Love to Jabba, but I’m watching these hips.”

“Really?” He snickered. “Mind if I join you?”

“You’re bad.”

“You have no idea...”

“Glad I caught you in,” she said. “I need some advice.”

He took a long swallow of Dr Pepper. “Shoot.”

“It might be nothing,” Midge said, “but my Crypto stats turned up something odd. I was hoping you could shed some light.”

“What ya got?” He took another sip.

“I’ve got a report saying TRANSLTR’s been running the same file for eighteen hours and hasn’t cracked it.”

Jabba sprayed Dr Pepper all over his calzone. “You what?”

“Any ideas?”

He dabbed at his calzone with a napkin. “What report is this?”

“Production report. Basic cost analysis stuff.” Midge quickly explained what she and Brinkerhoff had found.

“Have you called Strathmore?”

“Yes. He said everything’s fine in Crypto. Said TRANSLTR’s running full speed ahead. Said our data’s wrong.”

Jabba furrowed his bulbous forehead. “So what’s the problem? Your report glitched.” Midge did not respond. Jabba caught her drift. He frowned. “You don’t think your report glitched?”

“Correct.”

“So you think Strathmore’s lying?”

“It’s not that,” Midge said diplomatically, knowing she was on fragile ground. “It’s just that my stats have never been wrong in the past. I thought I’d get a second opinion.”

“Well,” Jabba said, “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but your data’s fried.”

“You think so?”

“I’d bet my job on it.” Jabba took a big bite of soggy calzone and spoke with his mouth full. “Longest a file has ever lasted inside TRANSLTR is three hours. That includes diagnostics, boundary probes, everything. Only thing that could lock it down for eighteen hours would have to be viral. Nothing else could do it.”

“Viral?”

“Yeah, some kind of redundant cycle. Something that got into the processors, created a loop, and basically gummed up the works.”

“Well,” she ventured, “Strathmore’s been in Crypto for about thirty‑six hours straight. Any chance he’s fighting a virus?”

Jabba laughed. “Strathmore’s been in there for thirty‑six hours? Poor bastard. His wife probably said he can’t come home. I hear she’s bagging his ass.”

Midge thought a moment. She’d heard that too. She wondered if maybe she was being paranoid.

“Midge.” Jabba wheezed and took another long drink. “If Strathmore’s toy had a virus, he would have called me. Strathmore’s sharp, but he doesn’t know shit about viruses. TRANSLTR’s all he’s got. First sign of trouble, he would have pressed the panic button‑and around here, that means me.” Jabba sucked in a long strand of mozzarella. “Besides, there’s no way in hell TRANSLTR has a virus. Gauntlet’s the best set of package filters I’ve ever written. Nothing gets through.”

After a long silence, Midge sighed. “Any other thoughts?”

“Yup. Your data’s fried.”

“You already said that.”

“Exactly.”

She frowned. “You haven’t caught wind of anything? Anything at all?”

Jabba laughed harshly. “Midge... listen up. Skipjack sucked. Strathmore blew it. But move on‑it’s over.” There was a long silence on the line, and Jabba realized he’d gone too far. “Sorry, Midge. I know you took heat over that whole mess. Strathmore was wrong. I know how you feel about him.”

“This has nothing to do with Skipjack,” she said firmly.

Yeah, sure, Jabba thought. “Listen, Midge, I don’t have feelings for Strathmore one way or another. I mean, the guy’s a cryptographer. They’re basically all self‑centered assholes. They need their data yesterday. Every damn file is the one that could save the world.”

“So what are you saying?”

Jabba sighed. “I’m saying Strathmore’s a psycho like the rest of them. But I’m also saying he loves TRANSLTR more than his own goddamn wife. If there were a problem, he would have called me.”

Midge was quiet a long time. Finally she let out a reluctant sigh. “So you’re saying my data’s fried?”

Jabba chuckled. “Is there an echo in here?”

She laughed.

“Look, Midge. Drop me a work order. I’ll be up on Monday to double‑check your machine. In the meantime, get the hell out of here. It’s Saturday night. Go get yourself laid or something.”

She sighed. “I’m trying, Jabba. Believe me, I’m trying.”

CHAPTER 52

Club Embrujo‑"Warlock” in English‑was situated in the suburbs at the end of the number 27 bus line. Looking more like a fortification than a dance club, it was surrounded on all sides by high stucco walls into which were embedded shards of shattered beer bottles‑a crude security system preventing anyone from entering illegally without leaving behind a good portion of flesh.

During the ride, Becker had resolved himself to the fact that he’d failed. It was time to call Strathmore with the bad news‑the search was hopeless. He had done the best he could; now it was time to go home.

But now, gazing out at the mob of patrons pushing their way through the club’s entrance, Becker was not so sure his conscience would allow him to give up the search. He was staring at the biggest crowd of punks he’d ever seen; there were coiffures of red, white, and blue everywhere.

Becker sighed, weighing his options. He scanned the crowd and shrugged. Where else would she be on a Saturday night? Cursing his good fortune, Becker climbed off the bus.

The access to Club Embrujo was a narrow stone corridor. As Becker entered he immediately felt himself caught up in the inward surge of eager patrons.

“Outta my way, faggot!” A human pincushion pawed past him, giving Becker an elbow in the side.

“Nice tie.” Someone gave Becker’s necktie a hard yank.

“Wanna fuck?” A teenage girl stared up at him looking like something out of Dawn of the Dead.

The darkness of the corridor spilled out into a huge cement chamber that reeked of alcohol and body odor. The scene was surreal‑a deep mountain grotto in which hundreds of bodies moved as one. They surged up and down, hands pressed firmly to their sides, heads bobbing like lifeless bulbs on top of rigid spines. Crazed souls took running dives off a stage and landed on a sea of human limbs. Bodies were passed back and forth like human beach balls. Overhead, the pulsating strobes gave the whole thing the look of an old, silent movie.

On the far wall, speakers the size of minivans shook so deeply that not even the most dedicated dancers could get closer than thirty feet from the pounding woofers.

Becker plugged his ears and searched the crowd. Everywhere he looked was another red, white, and blue head. The bodies were packed so closely together that he couldn’t see what they were wearing. He saw no hint of a British flag anywhere. It was obvious he’d never be able to enter the crowd without getting trampled. Someone nearby started vomiting.

Lovely. Becker groaned. He moved off down a spray‑painted hallway.

The hall turned into a narrow mirrored tunnel, which opened to an outdoor patio scattered with tables and chairs. The patio was crowded with punk rockers, but to Becker it was like the gateway to Shangri‑La‑the summer sky opened up above him and the music faded away.

Ignoring the curious stares, Becker walked out into the crowd. He loosened his tie and collapsed into a chair at the nearest unoccupied table. It seemed like a lifetime since Strathmore’s early‑morning call.

After clearing the empty beer bottles from his table, Becker laid his head in his hands. Just for a few minutes, he thought.

* * *

Five miles away, the man in wire‑rim glasses sat in the back of a Fiat taxi as it raced headlong down a country road.

“Embrujo,” he grunted, reminding the driver of their destination.

The driver nodded, eyeing his curious new fare in the rearview mirror. “Embrujo,” he grumbled to himself. “Weirder crowd every night.”

CHAPTER 53

Tokugen Numataka lay naked on the massage table in his penthouse office. His personal masseuse worked out the kinks in his neck. She ground her palms into the fleshy pockets surrounding his shoulder blades, slowly working her way down to the towel covering his backside. Her hands slipped lower... beneath his towel. Numataka barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere. He had been waiting for his private line to ring. It had not.

There was a knock at the door.

“Enter,” Numataka grunted.

The masseuse quickly pulled her hands from beneath the towel.

The switchboard operator entered and bowed. “Honored chairman?”

“Speak.”

The operator bowed a second time. “I spoke to the phone exchange. The call originated from country code 1‑the United States.”

Numataka nodded. This was good news. The call came from the States. He smiled. It was genuine.

“Where in the U.S.?” he demanded.

“They’re working on it, sir.”

“Very well. Tell me when you have more.”

The operator bowed again and left.

Numataka felt his muscles relax. Country code 1. Good news indeed.

CHAPTER 54

Susan Fletcher paced impatiently in the Crypto bathroom and counted slowly to fifty. Her head was throbbing. Just a little longer, she told herself. Hale is North Dakota!

Susan wondered what Hale’s plans were. Would he announce the pass‑key? Would he be greedy and try to sell the algorithm? Susan couldn’t bear to wait any longer. It was time. She had to get to Strathmore.

Cautiously she cracked the door and peered out at the reflective wall on the far side of Crypto. There was no way to know if Hale was still watching. She’d have to move quickly to Strathmore’s office. Not too quickly, of course‑she could not let Hale suspect she was on to him. She reached for the door and was about to pull it open when she heard something. Voices. Men’s voices.

The voices were coming through the ventilation shaft near the floor. She released the door and moved toward the vent. The words were muffled by the dull hum of the generators below. The conversation sounded like it was coming up from the sublevel catwalks. One voice was shrill, angry. It sounded like Phil Chartrukian.

“You don’t believe me?”

The sound of more arguing rose.

“We have a virus!”

Then the sound of harsh yelling.

“We need to call Jabba!”

Then there were sounds of a struggle.

“Let me go!”

The noise that followed was barely human. It was a long wailing cry of horror, like a tortured animal about to die. Susan froze beside the vent. The noise ended as abruptly as it had begun. Then there was a silence.

An instant later, as if choreographed for some cheap horror matinee, the lights in the bathroom slowly dimmed. Then they flickered and went out. Susan Fletcher found herself standing in total blackness.

CHAPTER 55

“You’re in my seat, asshole.”

Becker lifted his head off his arms. Doesn’t anyone speak Spanish in this damn country?

Glaring down at him was a short, pimple‑faced teenager with a shaved head. Half of his scalp was red and half was purple. He looked like an Easter egg. “I said you’re in my seat, asshole.”

“I heard you the first time,” Becker said, standing up. He was in no mood for a fight. It was time to go.

“Where’d you put my bottles?” the kid snarled. There was a safety pin in his nose.

Becker pointed to the beer bottles he’d set on the ground. “They were empty.”

“They were my fuckin' empties!”

“My apologies,” Becker said, and turned to go.

The punk blocked his way. “Pick 'em up!”

Becker blinked, not amused. “You’re kidding, right?” He was a full foot taller and outweighed the kid by about fifty pounds.

“Do I fuckin' look like I’m kidding?”

Becker said nothing.

“Pick 'em up!” The kid’s voice cracked.

Becker attempted to step around him, but the teenager blocked his way. “I said, fuckin' pick 'em up!”

Stoned punks at nearby tables began turning to watch the excitement.

“You don’t want to do this, kid,” Becker said quietly.

“I’m warning you!” The kid seethed. “This is my table! I come here every night. Now pick 'em up!”

Becker’s patience ran out. Wasn’t he supposed to be in the Smokys with Susan? What was he doing in Spain arguing with a psychotic adolescent?

Without warning, Becker caught the kid under the armpits, lifted him up, and slammed his rear end down on the table. “Look, you runny‑nosed little runt. You’re going to back off right now, or I’m going to rip that safety pin out of your nose and pin your mouth shut.”

The kid’s face went pale.

Becker held him a moment, then he released his grip. Without taking his eyes off the frightened kid, Becker stooped down, picked up the bottles, and returned them to the table. “What do you say?” he asked.

The kid was speechless.

“You’re welcome,” Becker snapped. This kid’s a walking billboard for birth control.

“Go to hell!” the kid yelled, now aware of his peers laughing at him. “Ass‑wipe!”

Becker didn’t move. Something the kid had said suddenly registered. I come here every night. Becker wondered if maybe the kid could help him. “I’m sorry,” Becker said, “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Two‑Tone,” he hissed, as if he were giving a death sentence.

“Two‑Tone?” Becker mused. “Let me guess... because of your hair?”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Catchy name. Make that up yourself?”

“Damn straight,” he said proudly. “I’m gonna patent it.”

Becker scowled. “You mean trademark it?”

The kid looked confused.

“You’d need a trademark for a name,” Becker said. “Not a patent.”

“Whatever!” the punk screamed in frustration.

The motley assortment of drunken and drugged‑out kids at the nearby tables were now in hysterics. Two‑Tone stood up and sneered at Becker. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

Becker thought a moment. I want you to wash your hair, cleanup your language, and get a job. Becker figured it was too much to ask on a first meeting. “I need some information,” he said.

“Fuck you.”

“I’m looking for someone.”

“I ain’t seen him.”

“Haven’t seen him,” Becker corrected as he flagged a passing waitress. He bought two Aguila beers and handed one to Two‑Tone. The boy looked shocked. He took a swig of beer and eyed Becker warily.

“You hitting on me, mister?”

Becker smiled. “I’m looking for a girl.”

Two‑Tone let out a shrill laugh. “You sure as hell ain’t gonna get any action dressed like that!”

Becker frowned. “I’m not looking for action. I just need to talk to her. Maybe you could help me find her.”

Two‑Tone set down his beer. “You a cop?”

Becker shook his head.

The kid’s eyes narrowed. “You look like a cop.”

“Kid, I’m from Maryland. If I were a cop, I’d be a little out of my jurisdiction, don’t you think?”

The question seemed to stump him.

“My name’s David Becker.” Becker smiled and offered his hand across the table.

The punk recoiled in disgust. “Back off, fag boy.”

Becker retracted the hand.

The kid sneered. “I’ll help you, but it’ll cost you.”

Becker played along. “How much?”

“A hundred bucks.”

Becker frowned. “I’ve only got pesetas.”

“Whatever! Make it a hundred pesetas.”

Foreign currency exchange was obviously not one of Two‑Tone’s fortes; a hundred pesetas was about eighty‑seven cents. “Deal,” Becker said, rapping his bottle on the table.

The kid smiled for the first time. “Deal.”

“Okay,” Becker continued in his hushed tone. “I figure the girl I’m looking for might hang out here. She’s got red, white, and blue hair.”

Two‑Tone snorted. “It’s Judas Taboo’s anniversary. Everybody’s got—”

“She’s also wearing a British flag T‑shirt and has a skull pendant in one ear.”

A faint look of recognition crossed Two‑Tone’s face. Becker saw it and felt a surge of hope. But a moment later Two‑Tone’s expression turned stern. He slammed his bottle down and grabbed Becker’s shirt.

“She’s Eduardo’s, you asshole! I’d watch it! You touch her, and he’ll kill you!”

CHAPTER 56

Midge Milken prowled angrily into the conference room across from her office. In addition to the thirty‑two foot mahogany table with the NSA seal inlaid in black cherry and walnut, the conference room contained three Marion Pike watercolors, a Boston fern, a marble wet bar, and of course, the requisite Sparklett’s water cooler. Midge helped herself to a glass of water, hoping it might calm her nerves.

As she sipped at the liquid, she gazed across at the window. The moonlight was filtering through the open venetian blind and playing on the grain of the table. She’d always thought this would make a nicer director’s office than Fontaine’s current location on the front of the building. Rather than looking out over the NSA parking lot, the conference room looked out over an impressive array of NSA outbuildings‑including the Crypto dome, a high‑tech island floating separate from the main building on three wooded acres. Purposefully situated behind the natural cover of a grove of maples, Crypto was difficult to see from most windows in the NSA complex, but the view from the directorial suite was perfect. To Midge the conference room seemed the perfect vantage point for a king to survey his domain. She had suggested once that Fontaine move his office, but the director had simply replied, “Not on the rear.” Fontaine was not a man to be found on the back end of anything.

Midge pulled apart the blinds. She stared out at the hills. Sighing ruefully, she let her eyes fall toward the spot where Crypto stood. Midge had always felt comforted by the sight of the Crypto dome‑a glowing beacon regardless of the hour. But tonight, as she gazed out, there was no comfort. Instead she found herself staring into a void. As she pressed her face to the glass, she was gripped by a wild, girlish panic. Below her there was nothing but blackness. Crypto had disappeared!

CHAPTER 57

The Crypto bathrooms had no windows, and the darkness surrounding Susan Fletcher was absolute. She stood dead still for a moment trying to get her bearings, acutely aware of the growing sense of panic gripping her body. The horrible cry from the ventilation shaft seemed to hang all around her. Despite her effort to fight off a rising sense of dread, fear swept across her flesh and took control.

In a flurry of involuntary motion, Susan found herself groping wildly across stall doors and sinks. Disoriented, she spun through the blackness with her hands out in front of her and tried to picture the room. She knocked over a garbage can and found herself against a tiled wall. Following the wall with her hand, she scrambled toward the exit and fumbled for the door handle. She pulled it open and stumbled out onto the Crypto floor.

There she froze for a second time.

The Crypto floor looked nothing like it had just moments ago. TRANSLTR was a gray silhouette against the faint twilight coming in through the dome. All of the overhead lighting was dead. Not even the electronic keypads on the doors were glowing.

As Susan’s eyes became accustomed to the dark, she saw that the only light in Crypto was coming through the open trapdoor‑a faint red glow from the utility lighting below. She moved toward it. There was the faint smell of ozone in the air.

When she made it to the trapdoor, she peered into the hole. The freon vents were still belching swirling mist through the redness, and from the higher‑pitched drone of the generators, Susan knew Crypto was running on backup power. Through the mist she could make out Strathmore standing on the platform below. He was leaning over the railing and staring into the depths of TRANSLTR’s rumbling shaft.

“Commander!”

There was no response.

Susan eased onto the ladder. The hot air from below rushed in under her skirt. The rungs were slippery with condensation. She set herself down on the grated landing.

“Commander?”

Strathmore did not turn. He continued staring down with a blank look of shock, as if in a trance. Susan followed his gaze over the banister. For a moment she could see nothing except wisps of steam. Then suddenly she saw it. A figure. Six stories below. It appeared briefly in the billows of steam. There it was again. A tangled mass of twisted limbs. Lying ninety feet below them, Phil Chartrukian was sprawled across the sharp iron fins of the main generator. His body was darkened and burned. His fall had shorted out Crypto’s main power supply.

But the most chilling image of all was not of Chartrukian but of someone else, another body, halfway down the long staircase, crouched, hiding in the shadows. The muscular frame was unmistakable. It was Greg Hale.

CHAPTER 58

The punk screamed at Becker, “Megan belongs to my friend Eduardo! You stay away from her!”

“Where is she?” Becker’s heart was racing out of control.

“Fuck you!”

“It’s an emergency!” Becker snapped. He grabbed the kid’s sleeve. “She’s got a ring that belongs tome. I’ll pay her for it! A lot!”

Two‑Tone stopped dead and burst into hysterics. “You mean that ugly, gold piece of shit is yours?”

Becker’s eyes widened. “You’ve seen it?”

Two‑Tone nodded coyly.

“Where is it?” Becker demanded.

“No clue.” Two‑Tone chuckled. “Megan was up here trying to hock it.”

“She was trying to sell it?”

“Don’t worry, man, she didn’t have any luck. You’ve got shitty taste in jewelry.”

“Are you sure nobody bought it?”

“Are you shitting me? For four hundred bucks? I told her I’d give her fifty, but she wanted more. She was trying to buy a plane ticket‑standby.”

Becker felt the blood drain from his face. “Whereto?”

“Fuckin' Connecticut,” Two‑tone snapped. “Eddie’s bummin'.”

“Connecticut?”

“Shit, yeah. Going back to Mommy and Daddy’s mansion in the burbs. Hated her Spanish homestay family. Three Spic brothers always hitting on her. No fucking hot water.”

Becker felt a knot rise in his throat. “When is she leaving?”

Two‑Tone looked up. “When?” He laughed. “She’s long gone by now. Went to the airport hours ago. Best spot to hock the ring‑rich tourists and shit. Once she got the cash, she was flying out.”

A dull nausea swept through Becker’s gut. This is some kind of sick joke, isn’t it? He stood a long moment. “What’s her last name?”

Two‑Tone pondered the question and shrugged.

“What flight was she taking?”

“She said something about the Roach Coach.”

“Roach Coach?”

“Yeah. Weekend red‑eye‑Seville, Madrid, La Guardia. That’s what they call it. College kids take it 'cause it’s cheap. Guess they sit in back and smoke roaches.”

Great. Becker groaned, running a hand through his hair. “What time did it leave?”

“Two a.m. sharp, every Saturday night. She’s somewhere over the Atlantic by now.”

Becker checked his watch. It read 1:45 p.m. He turned to Two‑Tone, confused. “You said it’s a two a.m. flight?”

The punk nodded, laughing. “Looks like you’re fucked, ol' man.”

Becker pointed angrily to his watch. “But it’s only quarter to two!”

Two‑Tone eyed the watch, apparently puzzled. “Well, I’ll be damned.” he laughed. “I’m usually not this buzzed till four a.m.!”

“What’s the fastest way to the airport?” Becker snapped.

“Taxi stand out front.”

Becker grabbed a 1,000‑peseta note from his pocket and stuff edit in Two‑Tone’s hand.

“Hey, man, thanks!” the punk called after him. “If you see Megan, tell her I said hi!” But Becker was already gone.

Two‑Tone sighed and staggered back toward the dance floor. He was too drunk to notice the man in wire‑rim glasses following him.

Outside, Becker scanned the parking lot for a taxi. There was none. He ran over to a stocky bouncer. “Taxi!”

The bouncer shook his head. “Demasiado temprano. Too early.”

Too early? Becker swore. It’s two o'clock in the morning!

“Pidame uno! Call me one!”

The man pulled out a walkie‑talkie. He said a few words and then signed off. “Veinte minutos,” he offered.

“Twenty minutes?!” Becker demanded. “Y elautobus?”

The bouncer shrugged. “Forty‑five minutos.”

Becker threw up his hands. Perfect!

The sound of a small engine turned Becker’s head. It sounded like a chainsaw. A big kid and his chain‑clad date pulled into the parking lot on an old Vespa 250 motorcycle. The girl’s skirt had blown high on her thighs. She didn’t seem to notice. Becker dashed over. I can’t believe I’m doing this, he thought. I hate motorcycles. He yelled to the driver. “I’ll pay you ten thousand pesetas to take me to the airport!”

The kid ignored him and killed the engine.

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